My Summer of Gold
by Mrs.TherapyMan
Summary: Looking for something you've already found can allow you to discover something new. Warning: graphic promiscuity. Oneshot Kagome/Inuyasha


Beneath the context of the world, there exists a girl.

. . .

Bored and broken, like shattered glass waiting to be swept away, she often spends her days lounging by a lake under the heat of a summer sun. She stares off into the mirage of beauty that comes and goes and attempts to find herself in her thoughts. When she fails, she seeks it in the fantasy of others, of men in masks.

This afternoon is no different.

Behind her, there is a heavy footfall and a deep call of a name.

Is it hers? Or is it another girl he looks for? Knowing the answer remains lost, she turns from the glistening of the lake and her eyes slide up to meet the eyes of a man arrogant with mindless hunger. She has never seen him before and knows he is younger. She decides it doesn't matter. He is the same as all the others and she knows what he's come for: a pretense of love, value, and respect.

Covered in only a white gown, she draws her bare legs up and stands. He is surprised when she wraps her arms around his neck, and into his ear, murmurs a promise she never keeps. Satisfied, his hands slide over her bare thighs and dances up her stomach to her naked breasts before she politely pulls back. She shakes her head at him; a pleasure laces through her bones from his look of discontentment.

She begins to disrobe him before pushing him down onto the unpleasant feel of grass on bare skin. Feeling the grass bite into her knees, she slides her warm palms over the planes of his chest and watches him shiver beneath her. His hands travel up her stomach, lifting at her shirt, and she removes his hand by nipping it. Her shirt falls back in place.

She bites her lip to hide a triumphant smile and slides herself over his hips. Hiking her gown up, she lowers her self until he is inside of her and watches hungrily as his head rolls back, lips parted. The sun beats down on her back and blinds his face.

And they fuck.

His thrusts are sharp and quick and hungry. Words she knows he doesn't mean tumble from his lips and she smothers it with his own moan as she rakes her nails down his sweat-slick body. More than once he rises to kiss her, but when she pushes him down, he fumbles with her breasts through her gown instead. He is helpless and hopeless beneath her. Soon, he ripples and growls and shudders and she smiles because she has won.

But it feels old and repetitive and no sooner the smile is gone than it appeared.

He collapses over her body and does not move. A moment passes where she thinks she has killed him, but he sighs softly, and disappointment tickles her chest. She waits until the sun has become a silver hole in the black sky before she leaves.

. . .

A day comes where it is like the rest but yet is not. There is a difference in the way the air blows and the shadows shift. She frowns and contemplates the change when a deep, distant voice drags her from her thoughts.

When she glances up, there is a tall silhouette standing on the opposite banks of the lake. She squints against the sun. "Excuse me?"

The shadow moves. "Are you one of his?"

Oh, she thinks. He is one of them. "Yes," she says, languid and insolent. "Are you?"

"I don't take pleasures in his pastimes," he says sharply, and his voice is deep, a rumble of the earth.

Surprise and suspicion makes her cautious. "Alright," she says and faces away from him to watch the sun dance on the leaves.

From the corner of her eye he moves and his face is no longer obscured by afternoon shadows. She turns completely to gaze at him, and his face settles like dust on the back shelves of her mind. She has not seen his epicene beauty before and yet she has. He is something of gold and silver.

"Are you an acquaintance of his?" she asks.

"Of sorts," he replies, shrugging, and sits on a thick patch of grass, folding his legs beneath him. Curiosity is sharp in his eyes.

Her face is guarded. "What do you want from me?"

"I notice you out here all the time," he tells her, plucks a blade of grass from the ground, and studies it.

Irritation is clear in her body as she shifts. "I'm not made for talking."

A long moment passes as he contemplates his words. She watches as a leaf tumbles from the sky to land on the water. She is aware of him studying her.

"You're new," he says without doubt.

She watches the leaf drift in circles.

"He hasn't taken you yet."

It isn't a question, but she nods anyway.

"And the men you bring down to the lake, are they–" There is a sharp look in her eye, and he immediately raises his hands in a placating gesture. "I'm only curious."

"Yes. They are his lackeys. What of it?" She thinks she sees him grin but passes it off as a trick of the light. His unspoken question drifts on the wind and tickles her ear. "They're dogs," she tells him and doesn't stop the hostility from crawling in her throat. "I give them what they think they want."

"And how do you know what they think?"

She is wary of the amusement in his voice. Idly, she shrugs and closes her eyes. "They all look for the same thing."

He is silent, and it makes her uncomfortable behind red lids.

"I see," he says at last. "And what do you look for?"

His question catches her off guard. Dark eyes fly open and they pin him back to the shadows behind him. In the distance a bell rings and she rises. She turns to leave, to return to the place that has made a beaten track for her, to the Svengali that has made it so. But he stops her.

"What's your name?" he asks, and his words are heavy on her.

"Does it matter?" she replies and doesn't stay to hear his answer.

The bell has rung twice.

. . .

One day, a man she has seen once before comes to her. She decides she doesn't care and allows him to fuck her on the ground, assuming dominance above her. But it is only his fancy. She knows, that even beneath him, he is powerless between her fingers and her thighs.

The sun is bright on her eyes, and in the corner, she sees something shift. She turns her head to inspect the shadow of the woods. There, beneath the dark foliage, a black shape moves in a way shadows do not.

But she feels an erogenous tightening in her bones and she forgets about it.

She breathes him in, and he lets it out.

. . .

When the night fades and the sun is the highest in the sky, she sees him again, the man of gold and silver. She is shocked and upset. He has taken her side of the lake, legs stretched out in front of him and thick arms braced behind him. His hair is a curtain of silver along his backside.

"What are you doing here?" she demands, stopping a few feet away from him.

He gives her a sidelong glance over his shoulder, and for a minute, the sun catches his eye and looks as if it's on fire. "Sitting," he says insolently.

"Why?" she retorts.

He sighs and reclines onto the grass, eyes closed. "I came to look for something."

Bothered and puzzled, she frowns. "I thought you didn't take interest in his pastimes."

"I don't," he says and thrusts his arms beneath his head.

She sits at a safe distance behind him and curls her legs beneath her. "So why are you looking?"

He shrugs and his hair falls over his shoulder. "Just curious."

She fidgets with her fingers and winds them so tight that they turn blue. "Curiosity killed the cat, you know."

A laugh rasps in his throat. "And satisfaction brought him back."

"That it did," she says quietly. "That it did."

He turns to look at her, and his gaze is something between fascination and a vague hunger she has not seen before. His eyes explore her bare legs and her flimsy gown that stops mid-thigh. A breeze blows and her hair tickles her arms and neck. A familiarity settles in her belly.

"Do you always wear that?" he asks.

"Yes," she replies.

There is an innocent sparkle in his eye. "Even when you're…" he trails off, waving absently with his hand. He smirks.

She nods indignantly. "Yes."

He is motionless as his eyes slide up towards hers. She holds it with practiced bravado and he turns to fully face her.

"Why?"

"You ask too many questions." She sighs. "Stop it."

He sidles closer to her, sitting back on his haunches. He leans forward. "I told you," he says and laughs curtly. "I'm curious."

All humor is gone from his face and something licentious lies beneath. She watches calmly as he crawls to kneel in front of her bent knees. His cotton shirt brushes the rough skin there as he leans over, and he smells sweet and musky, like rain during the spring. His breath is warm against her cheek as he speaks.

"I want to know," he begins, speaking low and thick against her ear as he drags a shiver from her, "what those men seek in you. And," his fingers find the inside of her naked thigh and her sigh is lost in the breeze, "what you seek in them."

She bites her lip. "Why does it matter?" she asks, but he doesn't answer.

He is like the others, she tells herself as his fingers leave her thigh to trace the curve of her spine. Of their own accord, her arms rise to rest against the muscle of his shoulders. She feels relieved and falls into the familiar course as she pulls him between her thighs and feels a hot ache slither down her bones to gather at her core. His hands are braced on the ground behind her hips and his lips search the length of her neck, as if he would find the answer in the pulse that flutters.

He is the _same_, she reminds herself and gasps when his tongue, bold and hungry, slides along her jaw. Attempting to find the upper hand on her own body, she wraps her hands in his silky, heavy hair and boldly forces his head back. His golden eyes burn into hers as she kisses the arch of his neck until she is inches from his lips and pulls away.

"Why are you so intent on knowing?" she murmurs against skin and catches an ear between her teeth.

He sucks in a breath and presses his erection against her core, determined and wanting. His hands run the length of her thighs. "Because," he says and tests the skin of her shoulder with teeth, "I have to know what makes you tick."

She tilts back onto the grass and pulls him with her. Deftly, her hands remove his shirt and slip into the waistline of his pants. Sharp nails brush against his hard shaft and his breath shudders in her ear. "Why?" she asks him and palms the base of his shaft that throbs.

He groans into the crook of her breasts and she knows he is already weakening. He laughs and his breath his hoarse and trembling. "You ask too many questions."

In response, she jerks the waistline of his pants down and hikes her gown up, pressing against him as he jerks at the sudden slick heat. He wriggles his pants down to his knees and hooks her thighs over his hips. He eases inside of her as she adjusts to the familiar discomfort. Hands gripping her waist, he begins thrusting.

It's almost déjà vu, but her senses grasp something disparate.

His eyes are intent on her, as if watching her roll her head and bite her lip will bring him to the epiphany he looks for. She bites her lip to keep from smiling at his efforts. Because she knows, _she_ _knows_, that what he looks for is locked, in a cage stored away between her breasts. He kisses that spot, as if to entice it out, but she brings his head up and her warm touch brings him to his knees.

She gasps and curves and clenches around and into him as he jerks and shudders inside of her and his cry drowns her own. His head drops onto her shoulder and collapses halfway onto her. When he pulls out from her, she feels an alien emptiness and winces. They are quiet and panting. His heart beats against her ribs – or is it hers?

"Have you found it?" she asks a while after watching his eyes roll behind lids. They flutter open, and without warning, snatch the breath from her.

"No," he says. His abdomen flexes against her navel. "But I will."

She involuntarily shivers and finds it discomforting. "I wish you wouldn't," she confides.

"I wish you would. It would make it easier to explore." He fingers the fabric beneath her right breast.

She scoffs. "If it's easy, then it isn't exploring."

He says something softly, but above her the bell has rung early. She frowns and removes herself from his body. When she rises and moves to leave, he snatches her wrist. His naked body glows in the evening sun.

"Won't you tell me your name?" he asks, and it sounds more like a plead.

Her lips twists and her eyes narrow. "Kagome."

. . .

She doesn't see him after that and seems to be contented with the results. She ignores the disappointment that often lances through her each afternoon. In turn, she seeks the men that fall prey at her feet and gives and lies to them until she is blind and no longer knows what she seeks. There are no exchanges of words or pointless questions and she often feels a strange combination of relief and revulsion.

The man of gold and silver is gone. During the nights when she is safe and locked in the confines of her room, she dreams he isn't. And one of those nights, it becomes true.

At first, she thinks she is still dreaming and begs to be woken up from this wonderful nightmare. She goes to the extreme of pinching herself, but when he is still there, nearly naked on the moonlit ground by the lake, staring at her window, she knows it is real.

He seems to be smirking, but the distance obscures her night vision. However, she sees him clearly as he motions with his finger, beckoning her to him. Clad in her gown, she complies.

The night is a restless one and every thing is bathed in muted colors, as if the earth holds its breath. Where there would be green and yellow, there is viridian and ivory. Where the shadows would be short and grey, they are long and sapphire.

"It's late," she says when she reaches him. She wants to be irritated, but it seems like too much effort. "You shouldn't be here."

He lounges on his side, his back to the lake, and he is braced on his elbow. He regards her with his golden eyes and it seems to be more notable and prominent now. She thinks it is the night.

He pats the ground in front of him and speaks softly. "Sit down."

Ignoring him, she gazes at the shadows beneath his cheekbones and silently wonders how it would feel to trace them. Absentmindedly, she notices the smirk fade from his face until there is a soft, solemn longing there.

"Come here, Kagome," he murmurs carelessly.

She is shocked and horrified to feel a ribbon of heat slither between her thighs. She remains where she is, although her fingers are itching for the heat of his skin.

"Don't use my name so easily," she warns him and wishes it were less of a whisper.

"Alright." He smirks and pats the ground once more. "Then come."

Her body is on autopilot as her legs take her to him. He glances down at the ground pointedly and she sits in front of him, knees tucked under her chin. Slowly, delicately, his arm stretches across the span of three feet and fingers curl around her wrist. They tug, but she resists. The slick heat between her thighs grows stronger.

"Why have you disappeared for so long," she asks him, slipping out of his grasp, "only to come back now?"

He shrugs languorously, as if the night is as permanent as fate. "During long periods of absence, desire has a tendency to grow. Much like an infected wound. Without proper attention, the infection spreads."

She raises an indignant brow. "I gather this infested desire has something to do with you?"

Lips curl and teeth gleam in the moonlight. "Actually, it has a lot to do with me."

"I don't desire you," she tells him sternly and finds it hard convincing herself.

His head tilts ever so lightly and his eyes roam her body, devouring and memorizing. His hand snakes out, grabs her ankle, and yanks on it until she is unceremoniously pulled beneath his body. She pushes feebly against him and his naked chest scorches her hands. The hot ache rubs against her own flesh as she squirms and he nudges his hips against hers. A groan slips past her lips. His breath seeps into her bones like honeysuckle.

"Do you still not desire me?" His voice is low and rich in her ears and drags a shiver from her; that is her only answer.

The hot night is relentless against her skin as she feels sweat slide between her breasts. Suddenly, the thin, flimsy gown is too thick to bear and she craves to take it off. A knee slides between her thighs and hands travel under her gown, along her thigh, up her stomach, and cups her breast fondly. His hands are hot, _too hot_, and she has every desire to keep it there.

One of his hands slide down the sweat of her skin and _cups_ her and she forgets every promise she's made to her self.

Slipping her hands past the waistline of his slacks, she grabs the swell of his buttocks to take him into her, _all_ of him. But she has no desire to subdue him like the others; she just _wants_ him _inside_ of her.

Scared and desperate, she follows the curve of his neck with her tongue and lips and breathes an honest whisper in his ear and trembles with foreign desire as he helps her strip his slacks away. His body, hot and sweaty and hard and _so so good_, presses against her and she's left breathless.

It feels new and invigorating and erotic and she _loves_ it. Hands clutching at his back, he hikes her gown up and finds her slick entrance that burns with need and desire. She takes him inside of her and gasps heavily into the stiff, midnight air.

A new feeling twists inside of her, strong and warm, and she knows he has taken a piece of her without knowing.

She writhes with raw emotion, and above her, he sees a reflection in her dark eyes. Pounding fiercely into her, he thrusts his arms beneath her and lifts, molding her body to his. His hard torso is curved into her navel; her hips are bowed to his; her legs are snaked around his waist. She rides him into the hot summer night.

When she comes, she trembles and gasps and whimpers and endures his relentless thrusts. When the orgasm subsides, she sees that he has relined onto the grass, thrusting up and into her. His hands travel beneath the fabric of her gown, slick with sweat, and tugs on the hem.

"_Take it off_," he gasps.

Gritting her teeth, she lifts the delicate material over her head and casts it away. Above him, she is bared and exposed to him, vulnerable to something she has long denied to beasts among men. His hands are everywhere on her naked skin and she _loves_ it. His hands travel to the swollen nub between her thighs and she _loses _it.

Bucking hopelessly and helplessly against him as he works every part of her body, she comes for the second time so hard and so fast, the earth-shattering pleasure that rocks her bones feels almost _painful_. She gasps as a growl rips from his throat and into her skin and he jerks beneath her and grips her waist, giving one last hard thrust.

She collapses on his chest, legs still locked around his waist. A long silence of implicit words, neither voices any thought. Even as the sun rises.

. . .

She is tied to him after that. At midday, they discuss pointless subjects. At midnight, he searches her body and she lets him. Some days she wants to kiss him. Some nights she almost does. On rare nights she fucks with her gown on, but most nights she lets him strip it from her. She loves being bare beneath him and above him and all around him.

When she is within close range of him, she breathes him deeply and discovers that she likes his scent, sweet and musky. He smirks at her when she tells him that.

His pointless questions become blunt and honest; she finds herself speaking quietly and deliberately, hiding the real meaning behind her eyes. She has carefully constructed a labyrinth of walls where he has to carefully find his way through. When she confides this to him, he tells her he's close to the end. She smiles softly and tells him there are ends and there are dead ends.

"But," she says, "every wall is an elaborate hint."

His eyes narrow and he takes her in the limelight of the afternoon. Even as the bells ring and the night descends, he keeps her and searches through every frenzied moan and cry and thrust and nip for an answer. He only finds half-truths, dead ends. He searches in those too, remembering her words.

He never tries to kiss her.

. . .

But one night it happens.

She rides his lap against a tree, pale blue fingers entwined in a blanket of silver. He is so engrossed in his searching and lost inside her that he murmurs her name by accident, calling her to him, to meet him halfway, to _help_ him.

"_Kagome_," he moans.

A wall shatters, because she knows it belongs to her. Her eyes fly down to his face. His parted lips look so delicious and inviting and she can't _stand_ it. Her head bows swiftly and she sucks the breath from his lips, twirling and biting. Shocked, his hands freeze and his hips halt. She groans into his mouth, grinding against him to recover that carnal friction. Finally, _finally_, he responds and they are caught up in an ageless, wild ritual. Her mouth opens wide and he swallows her.

. . .

After that, she can't get enough of him and curls herself in the corners of his lips. That is her favorite place.

. . .

The bells have become a reminder, mocking and resonant. She always ignores it now.

. . .

There is a causeless apprehension that stirs inside her, worming through her bones and dragging in its wake a weight that she can't place. A senseless dread.

She buries it in hopes that it will wither and die.

. . .

The afternoons grow shorter; the nights grow longer.

The first sign of dead, falling leaves comes sooner than she expects. He, too, has noticed this. Heavy words linger in the breadth of space that has shrunken between them and coat her skin in a sheer gloom.

. . .

"I think I've found it," he says quietly, throwing her back against the curve of his arm. He bends over her body to get a good look at her face that seems drained of color in the moonlight.

She smiles sadly. "You found it a long time ago."

"I know, I just-" He falters; shadows crawl across his face and she reaches up to brush them away. "I wish I hadn't."

She feels as if she's breaking. She doesn't know why she bothers asking; the answer is obvious. "Why?"

"Because it wouldn't hurt right now," he sighs.

A lock of hair falls from his naked shoulder to the valley of her breasts. She lifts it, studying and memorizing it between her fingers, as if it would be the last time she sees it, and presses it to her lips. She know he watches her even as she closes her eyes, as if saying something this secret shouldn't be seen or be imparted on; the way she lets it fall back against his cheek seems like despair.

"I'll always remember," she tells him earnestly. "Years and years from now."

He smiles, a silent agreement.

He makes love to her for the second time that night, and then a third, and a fourth… It is a sad rhythm of their bodies, their reckless hands and desperate moans, sounds of a farewell.

"What's your name?" she asks as he turns to leave.

He stops and turns to look at her, surprised and relieved. "Inuyasha."

Her voice is quiet. "Bye, Inuyasha."

"Bye, Kagome."

. . .

Years and years later when, again, the sun is hot and the air is humid, she stands at the edge of the lake in the limelight of the afternoon; in the shadows, she sees the ghost of the man of gold and silver.

Behind her, a bell rings. Once. Then twice.

She smiles, a nostalgia of memories.

. . .

Above the context of the world, there exists a woman.


End file.
